


Nowhere Else

by elsewherewolf



Category: Strike Back
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsewherewolf/pseuds/elsewherewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically it's just porn.  Michael tracks Damien down some months after a thing that happened in Vienna.  Porn ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kebab1806](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kebab1806).



**Vienna**

Damien watches him as he wakes, waiting for something. Some sign that everything's okay, that whatever happened to him back there hasn't left more permanent damage than simple scar tissue.  
  
And yeah, he steps out to let Kerry have her words, but the moment she leaves he's back in there. He feels responsible, like he owes this to Michael; this and a lot more. Night falls and he insists on staying, _there's still a threat to his life_ is in the back of his mind, and he must look pretty fucking fierce because they back down and stop trying to make him leave.  
  
Michael sleeps, mostly. Until just after two, when he wakes with a start and Damien's right there, wanting to be the solid thing that Michael looks for, but knowing it isn't what he needs. Tough guy. So he gives him five seconds of space, then pushes away from the window and makes his presence known.  
  
"Shouldn't you be somewhere else?" Michael asks, his voice dry.  
  
"Nowhere more important than here." Damien shrugs, trying to ignore the way his cock aches at the sight of Michael, hurt and helpless (no, not helpless, look at what the fucker did to get out of that place), and mostly failing. Pours him a glass of water, which he simply places within reach.  
  
"Everyone's okay?"  
  
Damien thinks about the minefield, about how certain he was that there were bits of _person_ stuck to his clothes, and how all he could think was, _it'll wash out._ Nods, with a grin. "Everyone's okay. You?"  
  
"I can't feel a fucking thing."  
  
"Really." Damien arcs a brow, and Michael laughs, winces. "Liar. So, I guess that means you _didn't_ get a real hi from Kerry?"  
  
"What the hell do you- Never mind. I know exactly what you mean. No. Why, you offering?"  
  
Damien takes too long to laugh it off. There's a tension in the air, born abruptly out of that moment's silence.  
  
"Fuck, Scott. I'm about as high as I can legally get, stitched up in places I don't want to think about and the last time I was in bed, I'm pretty sure someone was about to harvest my kidneys. Sex is- Was the last thing on my mind."  
  
"Wait." Damien manages a cocky grin. "Is or was?" He moves again, walks around to the other side of the bed, where Michael's good hand is resting on soft sheets. Picks it up and draws it towards his groin, the shape his cock's making inside his jeans. "It's the first damned thing on my mind right now."  
  
"Plenty of women back at the hotel," Michael replies, his eyes closing when Damien presses against his empty palm. "Who'd have thought the great Damien Scott would need to take advantage of-"  
  
"Stop talking." He's impatient, reaches to push at the covers and slip his hand under Michael's loose gown. "Damn, these things are convenient." Michael's cock is soft, warm, and Damien pushes his fingertips hard into the coarse hair surrounding it, until Michael grunts displeasure. Pushes a little harder. He grins when Michael's attempt at retaliation comes up weak, just feels good instead of cruel. "Come on, man. Hero of the day, you can take anything."  
  
"Bastard."  
  
"I prefer asshole. And while we're talkin' about assholes..."  
  
Michael's foot leaps up at the sudden touch, slips against the mattress, tangled in covers and they both know he's not going anywhere. Damien grins, draws his hand back to flesh now thickening, growing inside his grip.  
  
"Like I said, convenient." He considers Michael's throat, decides against it and drags at the collar of the gown instead, until something gives and he can pull it far enough that he can lean and get his teeth into the skin around Michael's nipple. Bites, and Michael's cursing him, squeezing his cock at the same time. "Fuck, I gotta take these off," Damien groans, letting go of the gown to pull desperately at the buttons of his fly. He drops his jeans, and Michael's hand is back on him, and God it's better when they're at least a little willing.  
  
He'd been pretty sure that Michael's left hand was out of action, so it surprises him when he feels fingers in his hair, dragging him across to the other nipple. Oh, he's down with _that_.  
  
"You're not having all the fun," Michael growls, and Damien chokes out a laugh when his balls are gathered into a death-grip.  
  
"That's no way to thank me. Seriously." Damien bites harder, but of course Michael can take it. Fucker. A couple more seconds of that torture and Michael finally releases his balls, smacks his ass instead. Damien groans, thumbing the head of Michael's cock and even that isn't enough any more.  
  
"Lose the damn gown," he grumbles, letting go long enough for Michael to comply. Damien's pretty sure he's salivating at that point, _shit._ Thick bouquets of fresh bruises, and here and there the peeking greens and yellows of older hurts. Stained skin where the blood didn't quite wash off. The odd track of soluble stitches, and right there the ugly black threads where anything else wasn't enough. He wants to taste it all, purples, greens, blacks. Instead he looks Michael right in the eye and asks straight out, "what the fuck are we doing here? No bullshit, just tell me."  
  
Michael winces, turning away for a moment and Damien feels like kind of an ass, jeans around his ankles and his dick out and hard.  
  
"Can we leave the talking and touchy feely bollocks for after... whatever this is?" Michael sounds kind of wrung out, which Damien guesses is to be expected, but unless he's imagining things, there's something else there too.  
  
"I don't even know if you like doing dudes, man. Is this good? Are we good?"  
  
Michael snorts, looking back at him, eyes of fucking steel. "What do you think, Scott?"  
  
Damien lets his attention wander from Michael's face to those bruises, stitches, the blood, the sinful cut of Michael's hip, and that _cock_ , and he grins wide. "Yeah, I don't usually do this either."  
  
"Be nice if you actually _did_ something," Michael grumbles, and Damien raises an eyebrow like _really? Fuckin' serious?_ Bends, to sink his teeth again, tasting musk and feeling the drag of wiry hair between his teeth. It's satisfying, the way it makes Michael groan, makes him suddenly stiffen up for just a second before he actually surrenders, gives in to it, to enjoying it. He sucks and chews his way around the root of Michael's cock and it's somehow better than whatever it was he thought he was going to do.  
  
"Do it," Michael groans, low from his throat and Damien looks up at him, finds something inside himself that twists and lurches when he realises that Michael's looking right back.  
  
"Fuck," he mutters, jerking himself lazily with one hand while the other goes from stroking bruised and tender skin to lifting Michael's cock gently to his lips.  
  
Maybe it's because Michael's pumped full of morphine or whatever, all inhibition gone, but Damien knows it won't take long, expects the sudden hitch, even the grab of his arm. He doesn't expect his own orgasm, though, how it goes from low burn to sudden flare just at the taste of Michael's come, at that weirdly desperate sound that comes up from somewhere deep among dark bruises and whatever else they did to him in that place.  
  
"Shit." He wipes his mouth on his arm, grits his teeth to swallow the rest anyway because where else is it going to go?  
  
Michael's laughing at him, or just laughing in general, and he retaliates by pushing his fingers into Michael's mouth with the taste of his own cock, his own come. And it's like that for a few seconds, both of them laughing until there's a sound from somewhere outside that reminds them of where they are and Damien hurries to hike up his jeans and clean Michael up, straighten the gown and the bedsheets.  
  
"That was all very efficient," Michael says, and Damien really wishes there were some way to escape that intense fucking stare.  
  
They don't get to talk or touch any more either because a nurse comes in and Damien feels like he's more than just in the way and what's weird is how hard he takes it.  
  
  
  
  
  
They don't talk about it for another ten months. Damien's staying in some shithole hotel in the middle of fucking nowhere, Texas, and the last person he expects to see when he opens the door is Michael Stonebridge.  
  
"You're a hard man to find," Michael says, pushing past him and surveying the room quickly. "And you're alone," he says, and though it comes out flat there's still a note of surprise.  
  
"Not any more. Nice to see you too. How's life?"  
  
Michael's at the window, closing the blinds. He pauses for a second before he turns around. "It's been quiet. Until about a week ago."  
  
"What happened-"  
  
"I made a mistake."  
  
Damien waits for the rest of it, wishing it hadn't been ten months because he's not so great at getting a read on Michael any more.  
  
"Kerry, I mean. I was... wrong to walk away."  
  
"We did our job, you deserved it. Her, that life." The words just come out, because Damien still has no idea what's going on here and only part of that is down to last night's tequila.  
  
"I don't mean from the job." Michael scrubs a hand over his face, back through his hair. "I told Kerry the truth. About everything. Kate. You."  
  
"Me? What did I do?"  
  
Michael looks stung for a second before he masks it, shakes his head. "I know the difference, Damien. You go into combat with men, you eat and sleep and piss with them, you bleed for them and that's what it is. But it's not... It's different. It was different."  
  
Damien thinks about continuing to play dumb, because he'd long ago convinced himself that there's no way in hell Michael should be going down this road. Of course, he had Kerry to consider then and apparently that's no longer an issue. "Long way to come for another hand job, don't you think?"  
  
"Stop being Damien Scott for just one fucking minute," Michael snarls, moving to close the blinds on the other window. "Please."  
  
"Man, I can't believe you tracked me all the way out to here in the asscrack of the world. Pretty fuckin' desperate, even for you." Damien doesn't see it coming, gets floored by the punch that catches his jaw and he's pretty sure if Michael had put a little more effort in, would have dislocated something.  
  
"Shit, fuck..." Michael drops to his knees and Damien unfurls from the fetal position, blinking until he can see straight again. "Sorry."  
  
Damien laughs, the taste of blood thick on his tongue. "This is that touchy feely bollocks, huh? C'mon, lay it on me."  
  
"I couldn't walk away from _you_. It wasn't the section, it wasn't even Grant."  
  
That ice stare again, but it's warmer than it ever was, and Damien rolls over, gets a hand beneath his ass and pushes himself up. Draws his knees up and looks sidelong at Michael. "Couldn't? But you did."  
  
"Like I said, I made a mistake. Maybe it was just a hand job, but there was always more to this than that one time." Michael reaches for Damien then, curls his hand into Damien's shirt and tightens his grip slowly. "Why the fuck I kept telling myself otherwise, I don't know."  
  
"Because you're not gay," Damien mutters. "And neither am I."  
  
Something wounded crosses Michael's face, a shadow of doubt, and Damien can't stand it. He's fucked his way across the States in an effort to forget what it was like to watch Michael lose control, lose focus, lose every shred of whatever quality it is that makes him such a good soldier. And now Michael's here, and it's just fucking crazy to sit here and do nothing about it. Crazier still to say all this stupid shit which is only going to push him away.  
  
"Hey, Mikey."  
  
Michael blinks, the nickname appearing to catch him completely off guard. It's probably the closest Damien ever gets to a term of endearment.  
  
"I swear to God, there's nobody here but you and me. I don't have half of section 20 hiding under the bed. So fucking say what you've gotta say and we'll figure it out from there and even if you're not gay and I'm not gay you can still kiss me and I promise I won't kill you."  
  
Michael stares at him for so long he thinks he might have broken something in that pretty blond head, but then the fist in his shirt moves, pulls him closer until he feels Michael's breath on his cheek. Which is starting to throb, and he thinks there's an ice machine on the ground floor of this dump maybe and he should probably send Michael out later to get some. And maybe another bottle of tequila from the 7-11 down the street.  
  
"You're kind of a slut, Damien Scott."  
  
"'preciate you noticing."  
  
"Do you think you might stop doing that? Because I don't think I want to be with a slut and yeah, I wasn't exactly Mr Faithful, but-"  
  
"Will you just fucking kiss me?"  
  
"Is it a deal breaker?" Michael laughs, and it makes Damien feel a little dizzy. But then there's Michael's mouth, lips on his swollen cheek, and it's more tenderness than he's felt in a long while and it's kind of jarring because he's Damien Scott and tenderness isn't really his deal. But there's also the hand pulling at his shirt, slipping beneath it and when Michael's knuckles touch his skin it's just as intense as everything else about him.  
  
He doesn't quite figure out where he's going until he feels hardwood beneath his head and everything goes grey for a second as Michael strips him of his shirt and it's frustrating as fuck because he's _still_ waiting for a kiss.  
  
It's messy when it comes because he's not used to being kissed by a guy and it's different, a surrender of a part of himself that doesn't usually yield. Michael's mouth covers his and there are teeth in his lip and about five other things happening at once that make sparks go off in his chest and fire lick at his throat. His shoulders are pinned and Michael's sitting on him and _that's_ hot as fuck, and he's getting a massive hard-on which Michael's obviously noticed because he's moving against it just enough - wait, not enough - and there's the kiss still, through it all and he wonders idly if the blood bothers Michael and decides he doesn't care because if he's going to put up with getting punched, Michael can put up with the blood.  
  
Michael makes a sound half grunt half moan and sits back, looking about as dazed as Damien feels.  
  
"I'm going to guess that was okay," he says, and Damien just grins, folds his arms beneath his head.  
  
"How the fuck did you find me?"  
  
Michael tilts his head like he can't believe that question was the only thing that Damien could think of to say.  
  
"Seriously, man. I am so far off the grid. Can't even _see_ the grid from here."  
  
"Yeah, well. When you're determined enough..."  
  
"You told Kerry a week ago," Damien points out.  
  
"I started looking for you before then. Had a little help. Here I am."  
  
"You're not gonna tell me, are you? Fine. Here you are. Now what?" Damien has a pretty good idea of what comes next, but there's also after that to think about, too. Because it _is_ a long way to come for a hand job or a fuck or whatever and he is fucking sick and tired of running. It isn't in him, it's not who he is. And how the fuck are a bunch of gun-toting terrorists easier to face than one unarmed man?  
  
"Now you tell me if it's worth me sticking around."  
  
"Well, we've got the Alamo, SeaWorld, Six Flags..."  
  
"For God's sake, Damien, please st-"  
  
"Yes. Okay. Stick around. Fuck me and be here tomorrow and _please_ , make me leave this shithole town and whatever, we'll go back to England and avoid your ex or find some other town..."  
  
"Why don't we take it one step at a time, okay?"  
  
Damien nods and shrugs, which seems to catch Michael off-guard. _Yes._ he thinks. _For once, I don't have anything else to say._  
  
He closes his eyes when Michael bends to kiss him again, quiet and slow and with a hand in his hair that's all caress and possessive. It's hot like the first time but in a different way entirely, and Damien's cock still aches. He blinks when Michael stops, and gives him half a smile. "You know there's a perfectly serviceable bed in this room, right? It ain't the Hilton, but I haven't seen any cockroaches yet either."  
  
"Reassuring." But Michael relents, and there's a delicious moment of pressure as he shifts to get up, pulls Damien up behind him. They stand toe to toe, Damien determined to even things up and putting his hands on Michael's shirt to pull open the buttons. Firm muscle beneath, and the track of scars and Damien realises he knows the origins of most of them, already knows this skin pretty intimately.  
  
Then Michael's hands are on his ass and _that's_ new as well. Maybe it is just a natural progression. Maybe it's weeks spent in adjacent hotel rooms, learning how to trust one another, or thinking he's dead or him thinking Damien's dead, fighting for their lives, for hundreds of lives in fact. Losing what was important, mourning together, getting totally fucked over together. Maybe this is just where all that shit eventually leads to, or maybe-  
  
"Jesus, would you _stop_ over thinking it? I remember opening my eyes and you being the first person I saw and not even being a bit disappointed that it wasn't Kerry standing in your place."  
  
"I was right, wasn't I?" Damien says it with exactly the same smirk he used at the time, though it hurts a little more and he remembers Michael clocking him and damn, that was hot.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up and show me what you're made of, soldier."  
  
That lurch again at the pit of his stomach, and he shoves Michael hard, collides with him again even before the mattress has settled beneath their weight. "Like this?" He asks, grinning at Michael's nod, wider at the noise he makes when Damien bends and sucks in a good mouthful of Michael's skin, making every effort to leave behind the mother of all hickeys. He knows he's hit his mark when his teeth make Michael wince and grab his ass again, but it still takes him another few seconds to pull off. He pauses to survey the damage he's done, satisfied with the mark left on Michael's throat, before moving on to lay another on him.  
  
"Vicious little fucker, aren't you?" Michael groans and Damien retaliates with a hard bite around Michael's nipple which reminds him of Vienna, and he follows the line of a scar with his tongue, remembers those ugly stitches. The blood, Michael hardly able to stand when they first found him. Fucking beautiful.  
  
He thumbs at the zipper on Michael's jeans, and lets the rest of it come back to him. The bridge in Kosovo, how he considered his regrets when he thought that asshole Connelly was going to kill him and Michael being around the top of that list, the minefield, Latif...  
  
"Damien?"  
  
The murmur of his name in the quiet room brings him back to the present and he blinks, looks at the slender, warm cock in his hand. Rubs his thumb along the slit, enjoying the shudder that seems to travel upwards through Michael's body. No matter what it looks like, he wants to say, wants to tell Michael that he hasn't done this all that much before now. Like, maybe a time or two in college but that was it. Maybe that one guy at his friend's wedding when he was kind of drunk - and really, he was drunk a _lot_ back then, wasn't he? - but honestly, that's all. A kind of apology for how bad he thinks he is at this, except that he can't be that bad. Can he? Look at how Michael responded to him the last time.  
  
Look at how he's responding now, for fuck's sake. Arched a little, his hands skirting around taking a good hold of Damien's hair and he'd say _go for it_ if he wasn't busy doing other things with his mouth. More important things, like dragging his lips and the flat of his tongue the length of Michael's cock. Root to tip and back again and further down, skin like wrinkled silk. He widens his mouth, sucks in one of Michael's balls, then the other, enjoying the response he gets, like Michael's hand finally finding its mark and tightening into his hair and he expects the pull after another minute of slow, wet teasing, goes with it. Up to Michael's mouth which is a little dry, and he reaches between them to fumble open his own jeans, extract his cock and let it slide over Michael's. Except it needs lube and it just kind of sticks rather than slides and he grumbles about it pretty vocally into Michael's mouth.  
  
"Fuck's sake," Michael grunts, shoving him off.  
  
"Kind of presumptuous," he says, up on his elbows and watching Michael rummage around in the cabinet over the sink until he comes up with some lube.  
  
"Yeah? Look what I found."  
  
Damien grins, moving quickly to shuck off his jeans, and realises a little late how desperate that might make him look but what does that matter any more?  
  
"Imagine that." He welcomes Michael back into the bed with his entire body, groaning at skin on skin and being completely impatient about everything until Michael's slick hand finds his dick and doesn't let go. "Mikey... fuck Mikey, you've gotta..." He wants to say _stop_ but at the same time it's a fucking awesome hand job and he wants it, wants to come with Michael's fingers wrapped around his cock, Michael's tongue in his mouth. So it's half-assed when he reaches to catch Michael's wrist; it doesn't stop him and he doesn't care, holds on when every muscle draws taut and he's a fucking idiot. Should have expected this, knowing what Michael's like. Tenacious as fuck and it's-  
  
Something.  
  
Michael's hand is large and tight at the back of his head, the other's warm and slippery on his cock and there are teeth in his lip, scars beneath his fingers and he comes with a sudden, harsh murmur of warning.  
  
Drops, exhausted, groaning because Michael won't leave his dick alone and it's too much. Off the grid and way beyond his comfort zone but it doesn't matter. Can't matter, because there's still that bit further to go and he's fucking going there. He could die tomorrow, and he really wants to be able to cross Michael off that list of regrets before he does. He's rolled to his belly before he's even recovered and Michael's weight comes down and covers him, warm kisses between his shoulder blades and he can't decide if that's maybe a little much and can't bring himself to say anything about it even if it is.  
  
"Recovered?"  
  
He grins into the pillow, turns to rest his cheek on it.  
  
"Need a minute?" Michael asks, amusement in his voice, and Damien takes pleasure in how affected he sounds, too.  
  
"Fuck you, asshole."  
  
"Sorry, I mistook you for Damien Scott."  
  
"Ha fuckin' ha. Do your worst." And maybe he shouldn't have used those exact words because _shit_ , those are Michael's fingers and he's not really sure that he's ready for this but apparently Michael thinks that he is. His brow furrows when Michael stops strumming his hole and starts pressing at him with the tip of a finger.  
  
"Relax."  
  
"I _am_ relaxed. Fuck."  
  
Michael's mouth around his ear, wet warmth and tongue curved into it, and he shifts his focus to that instead, grunts at the sudden breach and groans when Michael's finger twists, strokes. He's not seventeen any more, hasn't been seventeen for a long time, and his dick's still only thinking about stirring again, but Michael is getting him there.  
  
"That... oh, fuck that, right there."  
  
Michael's thumb massages his ass cheek, that finger's curved inside him and Michael chews at his throat, at the scruff of his neck and he's still on overload, not sure he can handle this. Still asking for it, though, because there are things in life worth having and there's a different way of being, of feeling and honestly? He is so fucking sick of Damien Scott that this right here is nothing short of reinvention.  
  
A second finger teases its way in, slow and steady, the same determination he's known from Michael several times already. He goes when Michael curves a hand beneath him, pulls at his hip. Up onto his hands and knees, spread like he's ready right the fuck _now_. And he is, the second Michael's hand moves to his cock.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Something about this seems uncertain?" Damien asks, ragged.  
  
Michael extracts his fingers, grips Damien's ass and chuckles. "You have a point. One second."  
  
"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?"  
  
Michael smacks his ass and instead of being incensed by it he's fucking turned on even more and can't even come up with a witty riposte when Michael calls him a spoilt princess. He hears foil tearing and knows that this is it and something inside him tenses and knots before he can think and he hears Michael notice it. There's still a second while Michael puts the condom on, then there's a sticky palm between his shoulders and Michael's saying something. Damien tells himself to focus on the words, or at the least the sound of Michael's voice.  
  
Still clenches his jaw when the blunt head of Michael's dick presses relentlessly at him, into him.  
  
"You good?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, fuckin' awesome." A little delirious perhaps, but he tells the truth. The knot's unfurling, replaced by new and different sensations, like feeling rough fingers around his cock at the same time his ass is being slowly, inexorably filled. And it's... _unusual,_ his brain provides, and he turns his head the second he realises Michael's coming down over him, takes a messy, awkward kiss and lets himself be utterly still for a minute. Feels hair up against his ass and doesn't even recognise the sound he makes next.  
  
Whatever, it seems to amuse Michael and that's good, changes everything again.  
  
"Jesus..."  
  
"Damien's fine," he grinds out, and it occurs to him that Michael's only ever fucked women. "Your worst," he says, reminding Michael that he doesn't break easily.  
  
It starts out slow, and Damien's fine with that, his flagging dick now showing greater signs of recovery inside Michael's grip. And he thinks about how this isn't where he thought he'd be, not ever again, but he's that guy who just says 'fuck it' when something fits. When the rhythm picks up he puts his weight on one hand, takes over from Michael with stroking his cock and groans when Michael takes the hint and finds a firm hold on his hips, fucks him the way he wants to be fucked, needs to be fucked.  
  
Something that started back in London, an arm across his throat and Michael's fierce strength. Something that was too soon in Vienna, because it wasn't right to see Michael looking that vulnerable. It fits better here.  
  
"Fuck," Michael mutters, his hand travelling to hold Damien's throat and it's one, two more violent collisions and a tight, loud shudder and Damien pulls and drags at his cock, itching all over to come because Michael's already there. Spills quietly, his hips bruising beneath Michael's fingers, and lets his head fall forward, everything loosening.  
  
He listens to their breathing as it slows, lets himself be manhandled and turned onto his back, groans his surprise at Michael's mouth on his belly. On his cock, and that's too much and he lets Michael know with a weak slap and shove at his shoulder.  
  
"C'mon man, I'm not... fuckin'..."  
  
"I know." Michael shifts, stretches out sideways across the bed and rests his head against Damien's thigh. "Does your jaw hurt?"  
  
"It didn't. But since you brought it up..."  
  
He listens and hears the slightly wet sound of a full condom being disposed of. He doesn't ask where it ends up. "You gonna get me some ice?"  
  
"I don't believe you didn't notice, I'm not your bitch."  
  
"Ha. Hilarious, Mikey."  
  
There's silence for a few moments until Michael moves again, and Damien complains at being sat on, doesn't complain about the insanely possessive kiss or the knot Michael makes of their hands or the sweat or the fact that his dick needs a rest.  
  
"Come on," Michael says, patting his stomach. "I'm hungry. Shower first, then food."  
  
"How long are you staying?"  
  
The question stops Michael in his tracks, and Damien almost kicks himself for asking except that he wants to know, he kind of likes the idea that there might be more of what just happened.  
  
"I don't know if you've noticed where we are, but I don't think it'd be wise to hang around here all that long. I was thinking we should head east."  
  
"'We' now, huh?" Damien grins, thinking about how much more shit he can give Michael for this, then Michael says something about fucking him in every state between here and Massachusetts and he forgets to open his mouth again. But it's okay, because it's more than fucking and he knows it. He doesn't give a shit if there's somewhere else he should be right now, there's nowhere more important than this.  
  
Because it's 'we.' And he's cool with that.


End file.
